


i am

by memgril



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Slash, Unreliable Narrator, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22612387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memgril/pseuds/memgril
Summary: The splashing water was a satisfying backdrop to the decadent bathroom, harsh and uncontrollable and jagged. He saw himself in the mirror.Who was he?He was not James Buchanan Barnes. He was the Asset. The Winter Soldier.The wilted man in front of him did not agree.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 96





	i am

**1**

His hair proved to be a wonderful reprieve from the midday sun. It was a limp, rancid thing, and his thighs and shoulders were twitching uncontrollably.

The blurred alley was blinked back into clarity, the fifth time that minute (he was counting), and he heaved yet another chipped bottle into the swollen garbage bag by his side. There was another gleam – his arm, surely – and he’d finally fully cleaned out that corner.

The bag was heavy and sharp and his arm was shaking very badly. The bag prickled his side like a cactus and, damnnit, it couldn’t break _now_. He still had another dumpster to go through and a two mile walk before he could earn some hydration.

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

He stilled. He hadn’t heard the man coming.

He leaned against the rusted metal and prayed, and the blue-cold seeping into his cheek changed from sweetly cool to sending shivers down his body.

“Knock knock?”

Another series of thumps near his head. He huddled against the rotting trash around him and held his garbage bag tighter.

“You’re supposed to say ‘who’s there?’”

The light above him darkened.

_“There you are.”_

**2**

“What colour is your hair?”

Blonde. She was blonde and he was red, red everywhere, dark red—

“What are five things you can see in front you?”

His knife, sharp and wicked and shiny, was on him. He had another four on his inner thighs and back. The jacket was bulletproof enough and the weak arm (he should’ve cut that one off too) was wrapped tight. It was him and her in a room with five sealed windows, him and her and less than two seconds before he was up and his Hand around her small neck and the loaded COP

“Knife. Gun. Knife—”

“Keep going,” she said and he opened her mouth and wrapped a hand around her tongue

“Gloves. Box.”

“What is your heartrate?”

 _Send a message,_ the Handler commanded.

He grabbed the woman by her blackened throat and used the Knife, ornamental and mostly useless but acceptable, and shoved it left to her sternum. The Arm broke the bone and some of the ribs and he felt the warmth spill over his body as he took out a lung with

“Approximately one hundred and fifty.”

“What are five things you can see in front of you?”

The clock read 13:42 and it was a nice day. Light fell through the blinds and made the bejeweled snuffbox on her desk glimmer prettily, and he was sitting on a cushioned blue chair. She held herself like a statue, marble and braided and neat. Her shoes, an average sized part, had a red backside.

“Snuffbox. Rubik’s cube. Pen.”

She shifted and he could hear the ink in her pen change direction, could hear her dangly earrings move in the air and her hair shift across her back and she was still again.

“What are four things you can feel?”

It was dark. Dark and murky and stunk of human. He could smell two boys, seventeen and nineteen. They had urinated themselves and the seventeen-year old’s smelt slightly sweet.

He opened the cupboard under the sink. The little boy flung himself at him, trying to fight and kick and scream, and he wouldn’t stretch this out longer than he had to. The arm needed maintenance before further damage was done. It was dark, 02:37, and the Asset had a zero percent failure rate.

He grabbed the boy’s arm and neck and his head rolled towards the cowering older brother. He wasn’t much larger and had hid himself behind various buckets and fluids and the Asset grabbed the brother’s leg and he was also yelling, desperately grabbing onto the

“Water. Cold on my arm.”

She flipped the pen again and kept looking at him.

“What are four things you can feel?”

**3**

“Jarvis, can Mr. Stark see my medical records?”

“No. You don’t have any.”

The ceiling was smooth, so white and creamy that he’d asked Stark if the paint was lead-based. Stark had made a strange facial expression, one he wasn’t taught to recognize, and spluttered for a second before letting the quiet return between them. That had been hours ago.

He flipped again on the too-large bed but that didn’t change the softness of the sheets and the heat enveloping him. That wasn’t allowed, he recalled. The comfort and warmth were akin to a mother’s womb, and the Asset did not have a family. It does not require comfort and cannot risk the relaxation of senses brought on by the warmth. The Mission, he reminded himself.

He missed the chamber.

When Stark showed him the room, he had stood there and looked at the sheer decadence for two minutes (one minute and fifty-seven seconds) before Stark had something to say about that too.

“What records do I have, then?”

“You don’t have any records, sir. Medical or otherwise. Your digital footprint is similarly non-existent. Would you like to have the necessary paperwork to legalize yourself?”

He stood up. “Can you turn the lights on?”

He didn’t need them to see, not really, but he didn’t have enough time to survey the floor and memorize the patterns of light after Stark forced him to go to bed. The man had walked towards the elevator, still talking about some insignificant project, and then turned to look at him, at his heavy metal arm and thin flesh one, and commanded the AI to turn off the lights for another few hours so that a Mr. Barnes could sleep.

This new light, red-shifted and mild, was not of his or Stark’s doing.

The floor, bare and woody, was at room temperature. Everything he touched, felt, smelt, _everything_ was warm, in one way or another, and he knew Stark was trying to accommodate him. He’d been barred from changing the temperature settings. Perhaps it _was_ to dull his senses, but he couldn’t find the words to communicate the unnecessary aspect of this test to Stark. Everything came out hoarse and deadened, and yet he was more alive, more alert, than ever.

The handheld mirror in the bedroom was currently in shards, but this one was structurally sound and chilled. Large, gaudy, clean, but chilled. He rested his flesh hand on it, absorbing the familiarity, and pressed the rest of his arm on its surface.

More.

He needed more.

Stark had showed him how to operate the bathtub, simplified down to pressing the _hot_ or _cold_ button and waiting for it to fill up. He pressed the blue one.

The temperature difference between an average floor and this one, the hundredth and third, was between the range of nine and thirteen degrees Celsius. This cold water must exceed negative thirty-one degrees in order to be sufficient.

The splashing water was a satisfying backdrop to the decadent bathroom, harsh and uncontrollable and jagged. He saw himself in the mirror.

Who was he?

He was not James Buchanan Barnes. He was the Asset. The Winter Soldier.

The wilted man in front of him did not agree.

The Asset would not have gone with Stark. He would’ve noticed the metal cage around the man, would’ve felt his breathing and regular communication with the AI and the sound of technology before he landed in his alley. The Asset would have successfully hidden from the enemy and continued on his path to the Handler.

What would Bucky Barnes have done? Tearfully accept Tony Stark’s help and throw himself into recovery? Perhaps be invigorated at the chance of being with the face of the future, spending hours dissecting the advanced, sentient programs and robots now abundant around him? Ask about Captain America?

“I don’t know about you, but I really _don’t_ want to find out how much damage a super soldier can do if he slips and falls on my tiles.”

Stark came closer.

“How’s the existential crisis going, soldier?”

“Iron Man.” He had to clear his throat. “Anthony Stark. Tony Stark.”

Stark stepped next to him. He could see both of them, him towering over the other man, Stark’s arms crossed and his face tight. This man, hard and calloused and unflexing, was not the same one from television. Different and yet somehow still the same.

“Yep. That’s me.”

He turned to Stark. “How?”

“You are James Buchanan Barnes. That’s the name your parents gave you.” Stark was unflinching, small and weak looking as he stood thirty-four centimeters away from the Asset.

“I am the Asset.”

Stark nodded. “You’re also the Asset.”

“Negative.” One cannot be Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier. Lesson 00001— _the Asset is the Asset._

“What’s your name?” asked Stark.

“My…”

“Yes, keep going.”

No words came to him.

**4**

Stark took one look at the Asset’s face as he walked into the workshop and immediately directed them both out.

“Listen, Barnes,” Stark said, and when he didn’t respond, “Soldier.”

He looked at Stark.

“I’m not HYDRA. I’m not treating you like HYDRA. In fact, I’m going in the exact opposite direction. Forget all about that cold and depressing shtick you’ve got going on, because from here on out, you’re going to be one warm motherfucker.” Stark was trying to smile, he could see it, but the corners of his eyes didn’t crinkle like they did on television and his lips were painfully spread. The Asset was looking at yet another person. Another Tony Stark. Yet _still Tony Stark._

_How does that work?_

“The arm requires maintenance before critical failure.”

“Yes,” Stark slowly replied, “but we’re not doing it in my workshop. Or lab. Or any medical or hospital-looking place. I know what you’re doing and the only thing I have to say is _not on my watch_. You’re going to get better, Barnes. Asset. Soldier. You’re going to _get better_ , you hear me?”

“The arm requires maintenance before critical failure.”

Stark sat him down on a pink cushion and prattled for a second about how the fabric was specifically designed for the ‘optimum experience.’ It wasn’t in-your-face, but that was apparently the point, Stark said. He spoke with a strange conviction and the Asset didn’t understand. Why was he here? He could still afford another fifty-three hours before the body into dehydration and two weeks before it would start self-cannibalizing.

“Extend your arm.”

He noted Stark’s face, the minuscule twitches to his mouth and eyebrows, the slight curling of his fingers around the tools in his hands. His arm creaked and complained. He knew it needed oiling and a deep clean. Dried blood flaked in between him and Stark, a pathetic-looking waterfall falling in the large gap between their legs, but the circular-shaped cleaning robots did not move from their place.

“I’m going to touch you now,” Stark said, and he was being spoken to like a child. That was new. “I’m going to examine your arm and you will tell me if it hurts. If anything hurts.” Stark straightened up and looked into his eyes. “Does anything hurt right now?”

“Negative.”

Stark put his tools down. “I’m asking you again. Does anything hurt right now?”

“Negative.”

“Soldier, you’re bleeding.”

“The arm-“

“No,” Stark interrupted. “When I ask you if something hurts, I’m asking you about injuries. Any injury. Anything and everything. Even if you don’t feel it.” Stark pointed to his forearm, his flesh one, “And that looks like an injury to me.”

If anything, he was more irritated than in any tangible pain. The cuts to his forearm were barely anything; he’d made sure that there were no glass shards in his arm. He had more important things to worry about. 

He opened his mouth and tried to ask _why do you care, tony stark?_ but the words evaporated from his throat.

He swallowed.

“Does anything hurt right now?”

“Negative. The arm requires maintenance before critical failure.” His voice was crackled and raspy, but his Handlers never payed it any attention.

This Stark reminded him of the Handler. He had been tested similarly during his earlier days of being the Asset. His lesson days. He’d return to the Chair after a physical training session and

_Status?_

_He punched my eye_ , the Asset had responded. _He also shot my leg and stabbed my side_.

He felt the Handler behind him.

 _Wrong answer._ The Handler gestured something and the Asset heard whips of air moving rapidly before

“My… my shoulder,” he said. Stark stayed very still. “The arm. It’s pulling it down.”

He waited.

“Thank you,” Stark said. He opened a container, one the Asset hadn’t seen before, and pulled out antiseptic wipes and some gauze. “I’m going to disinfect the wound and wrap it. I don’t care about your super soldier healing. After that, I’m going to look at that arm and turn off the nerve connections so you don’t feel any pain while I’m tinkering. Okay?” Stark held the gauze in front of him.

He kept looking at Stark.

“I need a verbal answer, soldier. We’re going to stay here as long as you need to. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Stark smiled. “Let’s get to work, then. I’m going to touch you now.”

He wondered why Stark was narrating his actions. It seemed obvious; he didn’t want to be like HYDRA, but that didn’t answer the question. Why? Why was Stark being so nice to him? Why was he so suddenly invested in his well-being? He must know that the Asset was looking for his Handler; for the enemy.

Stark picked himself up and sat closer. He could feel the heat radiating from both of them. Were he Bucky Barnes, he would have shifted to try and dispel this offending heat, and were he the Winter Soldier, well, he wouldn’t know what to do. He hadn’t been exposed to such warmth yet. Protocol told him to stand stiff and wait for the Mechanic to finish, and so that was what he did.

Stark gently ran fingers down the metal grooves and lightly touched the plates that interconnected through each other. The Asset pronated his arm to reveal the bolt and Stark hesitated.

“Is this going to cause pain? I need to unscrew that.”

“Negative,” he replied.

Stark sighed and grabbed the screwdriver. He wedged it in and twisted and the Asset stood still.

The hatch was lifted and the mess of wires were revealed. Sparks of electricity jumped out and Stark grabbed the Asset’s elbow and wrist and brought it closer to his face. The current running through him was almost enough to kill the man, but the Asset did not speak.

Stark touched one of the navy wires, and the Asset jolted

 _Compromised leg,_ the Handler said.

 _Compromised leg_ , repeated the Asset. The Handler made sense. His- _the_ eye was not compromised and was thus insignificant.

“-sorry— I didn’t mean – damn those HYDRA bastards…”

_Status?_

_Compromised arm and hand sub-optimal,_ replied the Asset. _Arm requires maintenance before critical failure_. His breath frosted in front of him and the Handler’s finger loosened over the button. The air was cold and familiar and someone grabbed his impaled hand and

**5**

“You are Tony Stark.”

“I am Tony Stark.”

“You are Iron Man.”

“I am Iron Man,” Stark agreed.

“You are an Avenger.”

“I am an Avenger.” Stark continued, “and you are James Barnes. Bucky. The Winter Soldier. Say it.”

He was silent.

After a few seconds, they finally, _finally,_ reached their unspecified destination. The doors slid open after the ‘ding’ and Stark confidently walked out, ignoring the gust of hot air blowing into the elevator.

Stark turned. “Well? The floor’s waiting.” He made some grand gesture. “All of this is for you and I swear it’s not as overwhelming as you think. Come on, soldier. Let me show you your new home.”

**6**

“Did you learn anything about yourself, James?” the therapist asked. She had brown eyes and her hair wasn’t braided today. It was Wednesday and it was a nice day.

“Tony has a lot of names but he’s still Tony,” he said.

“He called you Bucky when he introduced us,” she replied. “He also calls you _soldier_.” She flipped her pen again and again. This time, it was a fountain pen, one of those expensive ones with weird decorations on the nib, and she had a bad habit of flipping the pen she was holding when talking with someone. “How does that make you feel? When he calls you that?”

“It’s… it’s _me_ ,” he replied. “He’s referring to me. He calls me Bucky or Barnes or soldier and he’s speaking to me.”

“And those different names… do you have a preferred one?”

_Asset._

“He’s talking to me. I know he’s talking to me.”

She kept looking thoughtfully at him. “You still identify with different names. I call you James. That’s still you, isn’t it?”

“Me.”

The clocked ticked in the background.

“You’re making amazing progress, James. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but you really are.” She put her pen down and uncrossed her legs, looking intensely at him. “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

“I… I slept in the bed a few days ago.”

She was delighted.

**7**

“Breathe, soldier. I want you to breathe.” Stark’s hands twitched. “Follow my breathing pattern. In,” he exhaled, “and out. And in…”

“It is 19:54 and you are in the one hundred and third floor of Stark Tower. The temperature is twenty-seven degrees Celsius and you are in the living room,” the voice – Jarvis – said above them.

“I was just working on your arm,” Stark said, wincing a little, “and I accidentally touched something very, very painful for you and you freaked out. We’re not going to do anything more with it right now but I need to close the hatch.” 

He opened his mouth—

“Don’t you dare tell me that ‘maintenance before failure’ bullshit,” warned Stark, pointing a finger at him. They were both on the floor, the warm floor, and his arm was still sprung open and angrily spitting. Stark was kneeling in front of him, hands fisted, eyes alert and sorry and this is Iron Man, he thought. This is Tony Stark.

“Tony Stark,” he said.

“Just Tony,” replied Tony.

“Tony.”

“Yes, James Barnes?”

“My arm hurts.”

Tony reached for the screwdriver. “I know it does. When was the last time you ate? You know what,” Tony interrupted before he could reply, “I don’t want to know. We’re going to eat something right now.”

“Why?” he asked.

Tony looked at him with those same eyes. “I’m a philanthropist and a mechanic. And even outside of that, it’s just the plain right thing to do.” He stood up. “C’mon. You’re probably starving. Jarvis?”

“I have ordered from the ‘comfort food’ list, sir. It should arrive in fifteen minutes.”

Tony smiled at him.

**8**

He looked at himself in the mirror. The bathroom, like the rest of his floor, was two degrees warmer than the average floor at Stark Tower.

He is clean shaven and has blue eyes. Well-muscled. He eats five times more than the average man and is a dozen times stronger than the average strongman. He likes technology and science fiction and fantasy. He sees a therapist twice a week, originally three times, and she calls him _James_.

He carries at least three knives and conceals two guns at all times. He can’t sleep in the bed four consecutive nights in a row and must occasionally tell Jarvis to lower the floor temperature. Tony Stark is his Mechanic and he is the Winter Soldier. He regularly does perimeter checks and has the layout of Stark Tower burned into his head.

He is James Buchanan Barnes. He is the Winter Soldier.

“Ready, soldier?”

A hand clasps his shoulder, his flesh one, and his response is a nod. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“The Avengers are waiting, sir,” Jarvis says.

Tony gives a wry smile. “Let’s get this shitshow over with.”

The elevator opens and he is Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier.


End file.
